memo

The whole city naps under heavy eyelids of snow. The past few days have seen nearly constant snowfall, reminding me of why I love winter. Roads clogged with snow and salt, churning tires, negotiating streetlights (mostly whether or not to run red lights) represent a challenge, and over everything a silence has settled like a hush in a cathedral, but what I love most, this past week, is how winter, more than any other temperate season, throws man's helplessness in the face of nature into stark relief against the blankness of snow. It's nothing drastic. It's ordinary, the everyday necessity of shoveling or plowing out a driveway, leaving earlier to drive to work, maintaining windshield wiper blades, gauging the depth of snow on the road at intersections and turns to anticipate the slide factor and adjust angle and speed accordingly.

When I see the houses drooping under their frozen weight and people trudging up and down the street in coats and trees holding armfuls of snow like piled laundry, I think it could be any decade from the early twentieth century to the present. Our machines may have grown a little more sophisticated over the past century, but not that much. We can't stop the snowfall. We can't stop the wind blowing. We can't stop the cold. In our struggle to keep roads clear and houses warm, we engage with one of the oldest struggles in the northern climes of human history. Winter is timeless.

This morning after my rush to get to work on time (this new earlier-bird schedule is not settling in well; my circadian rhythm is undergoing indigestion) I reached into the backseat and realized I'd forgotten my shoes. Yesterday evening during a fit of housecleaning I'd tossed them in the coat closet, and proven the "out of sight, out of mind" adage in the fullness of its truth. So today I'm keeping my feet under the desk to hide my fashion crime of wearing brown sneakery lace-ups with black dress pants. Fortunately there isn't a lot of client traffic in the office today, and I work mostly with men.

Speaking of circadian indigestion, my eyes have reached that stage of tiredness where I'm seeing through a film. It's like I'm not wearing glasses, wearing glasses. Also I think that I've drunk so much coffee in the past week that one day when they do my autopsy, they'll find a hole in my stomach like the bottom of a rusted-out can, and coffee sloshing in my veins instead of blood.

I don't expect to get a tremendous amount of rest this week -- I close at Borders three nights, and the other two are booked up with social fun. John said the other day that he's glad I'm out and about so much, because I used to be at home all the time in Michigan. Now I hardly ever see the inside of the trailer -- which saves on the heating bill. I come from a tight-fisted family of penguins. We never turn the heat up, instead relying on old-fashioned methods like sweaters, multiple layers, afghans and electric blankets. (Thank God for the electric blanket Mom gave me -- that bedroom is as cold as the proverbial witch's ear and Simon doesn't generate an appreciable amount of body heat.)

So yes, life is full and busy, and I am tired but happy. (It doesn't help that even after working for fifteen hours I have to take a little down time before falling asleep, which usually involves reading. But necessity is the mother of discipline, so I'm not worried.) I would only like a little time to take down the Christmas tree...it's out of season, and too dried up to plug in without burning down the trailer.